Wicked at Heart Read Free Page B

until it was finally swallowed up by the crowds
that ran to keep up with it.  The celebration, the clamoring, the cheering,
went with it.  In its wake a lonely wind followed, as though it too worshipped
Commodore Lord and had no wish to be left behind.  Damon stood there on the
pavement, a few last people running past, until he was all alone once again, a
few bits of paper skittering past his feet, the sounds of the celebration
fading off as the procession made its way toward the Star Inn.
    Commodore Julian
Lord.  Loved by everyone, respected, admired, revered, and adored.  Damon had
never been loved.  He had never been respected, admired, revered or adored.
    And he, standing
there on the pavement and clenching his fists with the force of his envy, knew
there was nothing in this world that he desired more.
    If Julian Lord
could be a hero, then so could he.  If Julian Lord could glean the love of an
entire nation just by sinking a few French ships, then so could he.  He would
run away, then, and join the navy.  He too would become a great naval hero.  He
too would beat the Frogs and win the undying admiration of his countrymen.  Then
everyone would love him, just as they loved Julian Lord.
    So be it.
    Lifting his
chin, Lord Morninghall kicked his way through the litter blowing mournfully
around his feet and headed south.
    Toward the sea.

 
    "Men
sensual and hardened by pleasures!  You who in full Parliament outrage your
victims and declare that the prisoners are happy!  Would you know the full
horror of their condition, come without giving notice beforehand; dare to
descend before daylight into the tombs in which you bury living creatures who
are human beings like yourselves; try to breathe for one minute the sepulchral
vapour which these unfortunates breathe for many years, and which sometimes
suffocates them; see them tossing in their hammocks, assailed by thousands of
insects, and wooing in vain the sleep which could soften for one moment their
sufferings!"
      French
prisoner-of-war Colonel Lebertre

 
    Chapter
1
     
    A decade had
passed since that fateful day Lord Morninghall had been sent down from Oxford,
and during that time, Britain had managed to plunge herself into yet another
war, this one with her former colonies across the Atlantic.
    Again.
    The war of 1812
was mainly a result of British arrogance, for His Majesty's vessels were wont
to stop neutral-trading American ships for "inspection" and steal the
very seamen from them, claiming that they were — rightly or wrongly — British
deserters.  Naturally the fledgling United States took offense, because not all
of the men taken from their vessels were, in fact, deserters.  Nor, for that
matter, British.
    The ongoing war
with France, and now the one with the United States, made Britain's ports a
beehive of activity.  Battered warships limped into their drydocks for repair
and were quickly sent back out; new vessels were constantly taking shape on the
slips, craft of every size and description hustled supplies about the busy
harbors, and seaside taverns were filled with smart officers clad in blue and
white, the elite of the finest navy in the world.  But it was easy, while
reading about yet another British victory in some distant place, or watching a
great man-of-war getting underway and feeling the swell of pride that was
inevitable in even the least romantic of hearts at such a glorious sight, to
forget about the more squalid, shameful side of war.  The side about which no
one wanted to think.  Tough seamen now blind, missing limbs, or insane, reduced
to crying piteously for coins in the streets and along the beach.  Widows left
alone, helpless and destitute.  Orphaned children.
    And, the navy's
prison hulks.
    Nasty, horrible
things they were, floating gaols with conditions fit only for rats.  Shorn of
their masts, rigging, and sails, deformed by ugly superstructures and painted
in the dingy smoke of their own galley chimneys, the